


Forget Me So

by Aerine



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Angst, Blood, F/M, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Suicide, yeah I'm a horrible person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-16
Updated: 2019-09-16
Packaged: 2020-10-19 18:28:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20661743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aerine/pseuds/Aerine
Summary: He dreams of you.Or rather, he finally remembers you.





	Forget Me So

He dreams of you.

Or rather, he finally remembers you.

His eyes wander up to the ceiling and all he finds are stains of ruby painted across your cheeks, his blood a juxtaposition to the upward tug on your lips; alive the Losers were, you sported a grin appreciative of that fact and turned the other cheek at what the crimson spilling from that damned cut in your palm meant for you. “You wouldn’t wanna miss out on all the fun, would ya’ Stan?” you told him, a phrase that enticed his lips against yours again as his fluids left their imprint on your skin for the second time. A giggle escaped you, glad that it was over, glad that _twenty-seven years_ would come to pass before the best summer of your life would return to haunt you. The fuck did it all matter anyway; the future was never promised, and for all you knew, neither was the return of the Losers swearing otherwise. As each of them stepped back, inhaled the faint breeze of the beginning summer, you and Stan eyed the crunch of flower petals beneath their feet as they departed with the intention to reunite the following day. Your eyes then aligned with his own, finding the gentle sway of the open field surrounding you both behind him, minds irresolute with the realization that now _everything mattered_.

The nerves beneath the skin of his wrist panic with the sharp intrusion, gasping for air as his arm hangs over his bathtub, not yet desensitized to the pain that causes his eyes to clench and force out tears. Yes, that is one reason for it, yet his fleeting consciousness leaps toward the direction of his beloved as the sight of you grabbing ahold of his hand to flee from what petrifies you eases his transition into the unknown. Your hair—long, short, who cares—falls behind you as you drag the man along the field, feet swift as the guffaws from an infamous clown draws closer to the two of you running for your lives, for something other than this. You’ve grown into the cheeks he used to poke to gain your attention, the forehead that crinkles when you weigh the options before you; all he sees is an illusion of you, one that somehow weaves him into the plot when he is already dead. Your feet remain planted in that spot he holds dear now, your place among the circle of Losers during a summer twenty-seven years prior, lips so soft trembling because you don’t want to die. “St-Stan,” you cough out_,_ _“Please don’t go.”_

The blood trickles down the pads of his fingers, perhaps akin to tears that refuse to fall from his eyelids. The droplets reach the tiles of his bathroom—thank God, not _your_ blood—as he sacrifices his time for perhaps more of yours. Because he takes his chess piece off the board, he thinks that the Losers Club, united, now stand a chance. He wishes for it so, unable to face what hardships and losses will plague his best friends; the best part is that the last memory of his will be the eight of you riding on your bikes, cheeks stretching wide as all of you smiled like the kids you were. The image of you catching up behind him begins to fade, echoes of your being seeping into his cuts, yet perhaps the sight of you alone as his last dream is why it remains just that. Twenty-seven years ago, you were protected by him, a boy insisting you were too audacious for your own good. And because of that, you were loved by him.

Twenty-seven years later, he dreams of you, he craves you, and yet he still misses you.


End file.
